


This Unexpected Windfall

by mindabbles



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 04:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16825252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindabbles/pseuds/mindabbles
Summary: Harry doesn’t like it when Draco is called in to work one of his cases. No. He doesn’t like it at all — at least that’s what he tells himself.





	This Unexpected Windfall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMostePotente](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMostePotente/gifts).



This Unexpected Windfall

_Dearest Mr Oliver O'Mullin,_

_It is of the utmost importance that you contact me at the Ministry for Magic as soon as possible. The matter of the 100,000 Galleons must be settled or the gold will be absorbed into the general fund by 1st January, 2011. Please, we must resolve this matter, as the 100,000 Galleons are not to remain here any longer. I realise that this comes as a surprise, but please respond in order to take advantage of this unexpected windfall._

_If you do not respond, we will have to convene a hearing to determine how to distribute the funds. Please respond by return owl so that does not happen. You must send your full name, address, and number of your vault at Gringotts._

_Malady McVeril_  
Office of Unclaimed Funds  
Ministry for Magic, Britain 

"Oi, Harry."

Harry starts and bangs his knee on his desk. "What?"

"I'm heading to the Dumfree house to see if I can find anything we missed. Coming?" Ron asks, turning and already heading out of the door.

"Oh, yeah, right. Sure," Harry says, glancing back at the letter. The Dumfree case has been giving Ron fits. Mr Dumfree was in his sitting room, eating green apples and cheese when a mist filled his head. The mist cleared and his wand, an old vase, and a set of spell books that had been in the family for generations were gone. And someone had eaten his apples. Half a dozen examinations of the house had yielded nothing more than Mr Dumfree's fingerprints.

"What's that you're concentrating so hard on, then?" Ron peers at the parchment as Harry stands and throws on his cloak.

"Third time in as many weeks that someone's sent in a letter like this," Harry says.

He'd written the previous ones off as ridiculous scams, harmless if irritating. The recipients had sent them to the ministry without answering the letters, no harm done. But this one, Mr O'Mullin, had answered and given his vault information after being convinced through a half a dozen letters that it was money he'd forgotten he had.

"Aunt Muriel got one of those," Ron says, picking it up to look closer. "Gave it to me and told me to set Dementors on whoever wrote it. She's still heartbroken that we don't use them anymore."

"Worse to set her on whoever wrote it," Harry says, glancing back at the letter. It is different than the others in many ways, but there is something familiar about the writing.

"Muriel's looked a bit like this one," Ron says. "Can't say exactly why." He tosses it back on the desk. "Come on then. Evidence won't find itself."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"What the hell is he doing here?" Ron exclaims as he steps over the magical barrier to the crime scene.

Harry follows him into the grim little house, knowing already who _he_ is. The first time Kingsley hired Malfoy, it infuriated him. He's used to it now, but it still irks him – makes him want to shove the man, at the same time as he can't look away. Like a train wreck or an open wound.

Draco stands in the middle of the room. He holds his tall, slim body perfectly still, but somehow manages to look ready to spring into action. The concentration radiates off him in waves. He moves his wand in a complicated pattern, pulling traces of magic from the room and into little phials he carries in his robes.

"You like watching him do this, don't you?" Ron asks. "You actually do."

"He came in through the window," Draco says, saving Harry from answering.

"How the bloody hell does he know that?" Ron grumbles.

Draco turns and scans the room, his eyes lighting on Harry for a moment, and then moving on.

"They knew each other," Draco says. McTavish, the young Auror who is taking notes as Draco speaks, scribbles furiously with a look of awe on his face. "They were once very good friends, or lovers. This was more for revenge than financial gain. Find Dumfree's ex-lovers and you have your suspects."

"How do you get that from standing in the middle of the sodding room, Professor Trelawney?" Ron grumbles, loud enough for Draco to hear.

Draco turns a pointed glare on Ron. Harry shivers in the draught from the open window.

"First, Mr Dumfree wasn't particularly fastidious. There is dust on every windowsill, except this one, where it has been brushed away, both inside and out, where someone climbed in. Second, there are items of monetary value in this room – a collection of rare books, first editions, for example. None of these were stolen. The books that were taken were of sentimental value to Mr Dumfree and his family only. The vase that was taken was taken from a room in a hotel in Torquay, where a Mr Dumfree stayed ten years ago for a holiday – with an unnamed gentleman friend. Mr Dumfree eats two green apples everyday. He's a bit obsessed with food – just look at his kitchen – and this is one of his patterns. Unless the thief was starving, which given the width of the indentation in the sofa where he sat while he ate the apples, he was not, the only reason to eat them is because he knew it would drive Dumfree round the twist. The thief also took his wand – that is a crime of passion, not finance." Draco brushes his hands down his robes. Harry feels a little breathless. "Taking notes, McTavish? You'll want to give those to Weasley."

"Bastard," Ron mutters.

"I'll take these back to my workshop and test them," Draco says, holding up the phials. "I'll have your thief's name by morning. I'll see you in your office at eight to hear my report." He nods to Ron and sweeps out of the room.

"It causes me pain to admit it, but you have to give it to him," Harry says. There are things in this work that no one can do as well as Harry. Ron is a crack trainer and Harry still wouldn't trade him for anyone if his back's against the wall, but this detail work, the picking apart of things like dust on a sill, isn't either of their specialty. Sure, they would have figured it out eventually, plodding through the evidence, but not like this, not in ten minutes.

"I don't have to give him anything," Ron growls.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_To the Attention of Loyola Larkspur,_

_I sincerely hope this finds you well. I realise that this may come as a shock, and perhaps is difficult to believe, but by virtue of several deaths and individuals who cannot be located, it is my great pleasure to inform you that you are the beneficiary of my client's rather sizable estate. There are but a few details to arrange to ensure that you are able to receive the property, jewels, and gold that is now legally yours._

_Please respond by return owl with your full name, address, and number of your vault at Gringotts._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Felicity Hammond  
Hammond, Hunter, and Harold, Solicitors_

Harry traces his fingers over the letter. He touches his wand to it and enlarges this section or that, searching for whatever it is he's missed.

"There's something here," he says. He leans back, tilting his chair until it might tip. "I know it, but I can't see it."

Ron comes to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder at the desk littered with parchment. "Got me, mate. Time to call in your boyfriend."

"Fuck off." Harry snaps. He feels an adolescent urge to insist that Malfoy is not his boyfriend.

"Um, yeah, joking. What's up your arse?"

"Nothing," Harry grumbles. "I'm not calling in Malfoy. Anyway, you hate it more than I do."

"If you don't, Kingsley'll pull him in." Ron shrugs. He leans against the desk, examining the letter. "Bad press, good will, and all that shite."

"I am the bloody head of this department and I'll decide who we pull in." Harry snatches back the letter and rolls it up.

Ron chortles and says, "Say what you will, you do have to give it to him."

Harry wants to throw something at him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Dear Mrs Pennywill,_

_I write most urgently to wish you a joyous season and to inform you that you are named as next of kin for my client, the very distinguished Mrs Follocot, who has unfortunately passed away this month after a three year fight with cancer, for all of which time she was searching for her next of kin to settle her estate valued at thirty-thousand Galleons. It is urgent that I hear from you so that the funds can be released to your vault before the New Year. Respectfully Mrs Pennywill, I ask that you reply immediately with your full name and address and the number of your vault so that the funds may be deposited directly._

_Most urgently yours,_

_Mr Truitt Dilwynn  
Solicitor, London, England_

"So, you read this and then you sent this Truitt Dilwynn the information?" Harry asks. "Do you have any kin named Follocot?"

The same green ink. The same odd little flourish at the bottom of the "y." Harry's sure now that the letters are connected.

"I'm not worried Mr Potter. You killed Voldemort, surely you can get me my gold back," Mrs Pennywill says, pouring Harry a cup of tea.

The house smells of turnips and doesn't look as if it's been redecorated since the turn of the last century.

"It's not exactly the same thing," Harry says. He pushes his glasses back up his nose. "Did you get a look at the owl that brought it?"

"No, I can't say as I did," she says, shrugging. "Would you like some apple tart? Made it this morning, with the loveliest green apples."

Harry sighs and accepts a piece of tart. It really is delicious.

The Daily Prophet ran a story that very morning about the rash of trickster letters preying on the elderly and vulnerable – including several wild theories about organized crime rings. It strikes Harry as something simpler than that, and there is still that something, that little clue that is just out of his reach, picking at him. There is some similar something about each of the letters, and there is something familiar about whatever it is.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Malfoy sits in the chair opposite Kingsley's desk. One long leg is crossed over the other. The fine wool of his charcoal grey robes drapes neatly over his thigh. Harry's collar feels tight.

Malfoy purses his lips when Harry walks in, almost imperceptibly. If Harry wasn't looking directly at his lips, he wouldn't have seen the near-smirk. "Good afternoon, Potter," he says in his smooth, clear voice.

Harry turns to Kingsley. He sits at his huge desk, an unreadable expression on his face.

"What," Harry says, placing both hands on the desk, "is he doing here?"

"Twelve letters," Kingsley says. "Twelve people tricked out of their savings. Draco's expertise often proves invaluable."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Malfoy drumming his fingers on his knee in his self-important way. Harry can feel him preparing to gloat.

"I have this one," Harry says, shifting his gaze back to Kingsley.

"Cooperation, Harry," Kingsley mutters, so low that Malfoy might not hear it.

"Cooperation, Potter," Malfoy repeats.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"So," Malfoy says, walking down the corridor after Harry. He walks a foot behind him, his long legs keeping a leisurely pace to stay just behind Harry's quicker, shorter strides. The thick carpet muffles their footsteps. "What do we know, now?"

"We now know that Kingsley thinks you have invaluable expertise, and we know I'm having a nightmare," Harry says without looking back.

"Spare me the theatrics," he says, rolling his eyes. "I was only asking about the case."

Harry stops and spins to face him. Draco is following so closely, he nearly bashes into Harry. The low light from the sconces lining the hallway glints off his pale hair. "I know that you, of all people, are not accusing me of engaging in theatrics."

Draco arches an eyebrow and Harry is visited by the desire to shove him. He moves without thinking, his hand in the centre of Draco's chest. There is a satisfying thunk when Draco hits the wall.

Draco's eyes narrow. He doesn't try to get away. "What are you doing, Potter?"

Harry presses his hand harder against the firm chest. Draco is slightly breathless. Harry wants to pin him against the wall until he's utterly breathless.

"Christ," Harry grinds out and he pulls himself away from the blazing look in Malfoy's eyes and storms away.

He bangs open his office door, making the glass vibrate, and falls into his chair, trying to catch his breath.

Ron, roused by the slamming door, appears from his office opposite, a look of commiseration on his face. "Malfoy?" he asks.

Harry grunts affirmatively. He's not entirely certain he trusts himself to speak.

"You've not eaten all day. Here. This is all I've left from lunch," Ron says, tossing Harry an apple. It's bright green. Harry bites into it; it's tart and juicy, and nearly cleanses the bitter taste from his mouth.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Please help me. You are my last and only hope. I am desperately trying to return to my home in England and I need only to get there to retrieve my fortune of nearly one million Galleons in property and gold. I am required to name a beneficiary in case I do not make the dangerous journey with my life and limbs. If you will help me with this, I will thank you with half of all my assets, deposited to your account. If I do not make it, it will all be yours. I cannot do this without you. Please respond by return owl with your name, address, and verify the number of your vault so that I can begin to transfer the funds. Thank you, my old friend._

"Did you think it was your old friend?" Harry asks. The couple is something like what the Weasleys might be like in forty years. They're holding hands between the chairs in the interview room.

"Not at first," Mr Bookbinder says.

"This was the fifth letter he sent."

"You corresponded with this person?" Harry asks. He’s torn between frustration at the trust people will offer and fury at the willingness of others to take advantage of that trust.

"Irvin, he’s called. He answered all of our questions, didn’t he? We went to Hogwarts with a bloke called Irvin," Mrs Bookbinder says, patting her husband's hand reassuringly.

"I'll need to see the others," Harry says. He doesn't want to ask his next question. "Have you anything left? Did he clean out your vault entirely?"

"We’ve just what’s here," the old man says, indicating to the room. He turns to his wife. "I'm sorry, love."

"An easy mistake. But we're in good hands now," she says. She turns watery, imploring eyes on Harry.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco can be found at the Leaky Cauldron as many evenings as not. He closes up shop at about half six and finds a small, corner table where he has a drink and a smoke before dinner. Harry does not want to examine too closely just how much this fact is a part of his daily consciousness, whether he comes for a drink or not himself.

Harry leans against the bar. "Hiya, Hannah," he says to her welcoming smile. "I'd thank you for an Ogden's."

She pours the smooth, amber liquid into a squat tumbler. Harry glances at Draco's sharp profile. Draco taps the long fingers of one hand on the table; he lifts the other hand to his mouth, a cigarette held loosely between two fingers. He parts his lips and closes them around it, drawing the smoke into his mouth.

"Harry?" Hannah hands him his whisky. "He's just arrived," Hannah says, nodding towards Draco. "I'm just now taking him his absinthe. He's not meeting anyone as near as I can tell."

"All right then," Harry says as noncommittally as he can manage. The astringent whisky burns pleasantly at the back of his mouth and he watches as Hannah delivers Draco's drink and Draco nods his thanks.

Harry crosses the pub and pulls out a chair, sitting without waiting for an invitation.

"Don't mind if you do, Potter," Draco says. He lifts his pale green drink and eyes it against the light from the stub of a candle in a sconce behind the table.

"No, I don't mind," Harry says. He sets his drink on the worn wooden table. "Did you know Muggle pubs don't allow smoking anymore?" he adds as Draco puts his cigarette between his lips and the ember burns red. He places an ornate spoon over his glass and rests a sugar cube on it.

"Barbaric," Draco says, setting the sugar aflame with a touch of his wand.

They both watch it burn until Draco tips it into his glass, setting the absinthe alight, and the scents of wormwood and anise fill Harry's senses. Draco quickly douses the flames with cold water from the small jug that Hannah left and the drink turns opaque. He lifts the pale, jade green liquid to his lips and sips.

Harry tears his eyes away from the now glistening mouth. "So, you're on this case," Harry says. Draco purses his lips around a cigarette and sucks in the smoke. Harry downs the rest of his whisky in one go. It occurs to him that they are both studiously avoiding the incident in the corridor the other day.

"Seems so." Draco turns and exhales, the smoke momentarily obscuring his face. "It's been a while since I’ve been on one of your cases. Nothing too taxing lately, I gather."

"Nothing that required your invaluable expertise, at any rate," Harry says.

"It kills you, doesn’t it?" Draco asks. His drink is nearly finished and he beckons Hannah who is passing by with a tray full of empty goblets and tankards. She smiles and looks a little surprised, but she nods. Draco almost never has two.

"I couldn’t begin to imagine what you’re talking about."

"Perhaps that lack of imagination is the reason you need my help."

Hannah places another glass and sugar cube in front of Draco and hands Harry a whisky that he didn’t order.

"Look, Malfoy," Harry says in a low voice, leaning in as Draco begins the preparation for his unforgivably fussy drink. He can smell Draco’s expensive soap over the fine tobacco he smokes and the sweet scent of the absinthe. "Kingsley says we work together, we work together. I don’t need your help, but I’ll take it because it is the right thing to do."

"You’re tiresome when you’re noble, you know that?" Draco sighs and shakes his head. His hair brushes his shoulders, fine wisps of silver, when he moves.

"You’re tiresome all the time," Harry says and Draco smiles.

"Tell me about the case then," Draco says. He leans back in his chair and sips at his drink. A second glass seems to have softened his sharp edges and Harry feels his own whisky warm and relax his body. "I have about thirty minutes before I have to gather my son."

Hannah brings food – bread and cheese and steaming vegetable soup, and a carafe of red wine. It has been well over thirty minutes, but Narcissa’s owl brought the news that Scorpius and she were going for dinner and she would have him home before bed. And somehow, Harry found himself suggesting that they continue their conversation and just have dinner here, together.

"I’ll come tomorrow to see the letters," Draco says. He picks up his spoon and sips his soup. His movements, even as he tears bread, are nimble and precise.

"Narcissa take Scorpius often?" Harry asks.

Draco frowns and Harry realises that he has moved past their unspoken understanding by asking a personal question, or at least one that is not insulting.

"Yes, Potter," Draco says, cautious as if he is approaching a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "When he is not at school and I am working, she and Scorpius spend a great deal of time together."

"It must have been hard, raising him alone," Harry says. He can’t begin to imagine. He and Ginny have been divorced less than a year, and while he is capable of taking care of his own children, he always knew in the past that Ginny would be home at some point to stop him from throttling one of them. And he knows she felt the same way. The idea of having no one else to step in when your son has just blown the wall off his bedroom while you’re trying to cook dinner is, frankly, terrifying.

Draco seems to be examining Harry, and Harry can tell that he is trying to decide whether to attack or to give a real answer.

"It was," he says. Harry feels his shoulders relax, muscles that he didn’t know he was tensing. "It was miserable at first. He was only two. She was a wonderful mother, and not a day goes by that I don’t think how sorry I am he was deprived of her."

"I’m sorry," Harry says, sorry he asked, sorry he made Draco pull this up.

"So what happened to you? I thought you and Weasley were meant for each other," Draco says, visibly shrugging off the heavy emotions. The wine stains his pink lips deep red. "It can’t be true what they said in the Prophet."

"Some of it, yeah," Harry says. Draco’s eyes widen for a second and Harry looks away. "Not all of it. We don’t hate each other. It had been coming on for a while. We were going to wait until all the kids were in school, but at some point, we were both miserable and we figured it wasn’t helping Lily and Albus to be around that."

"Very sensible of you." A mischievous smile curves his lips. "And now you get to sow your wild oats while you’re still young."

Harry laughs softly, "Not a lot of sowing going on, what with work, three kids, and a godson."

Draco smiles. His face looks totally different when he smiles like that. "Not what the Prophet said."

"I told you," Harry says. He’s aware of his heart beating in his chest, the way his knee must be inches from Draco’s under the table, a warm, long-forgotten feeling in his stomach. "Not all of that was true."

A cold breeze sweeps through the room as the door to the pub opens. Narcissa is in the doorway, her hand on the shoulder of a miniature version of Draco.

"That's you, then," Harry says. He is visited by a sudden image of his dull, empty flat.

"That's me." Draco stands and pulls on his black cloak. His fair skin and silvery hair fairly glow in contrast to the dark cloth.

"Come by my office tomorrow and see the letters, then."

"This wasn’t the worst evening of my life, Potter," Draco says. "See you tomorrow," he adds as he turns to meet his mother and son.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry fumbles for his watch, the same one he was given for his seventeenth, battered and dented and perfect, and blinks. It can't possibly be half six in the morning. He's barely closed his eyes and he certainly hasn't slept.

He pulls the blanket over his head and burrows back into his pillow. He realises he must have slept, because he dreamt about grey eyes begging and pink lips wrapped around his cock, and he tossed and turned. He's awake now, and he can still see it in his head, and his cock is hard as stone.

Harry flops onto his back. Giving in, he reaches into his pyjamas and squeezes. Draco's hands are smoother, they'd have a lighter touch. He conjures some lotion and strokes, light and even. It's not what he wants. He closes his eyes and remembers the way Draco's lips pursed around his cigarette, the way his cheeks hollowed just a bit when he sucked in the smoke. Malfoy, in his expensive trousers, on his knees with his mouth on Harry. Harry's hands tangling in the smooth hair. Draco would love the power of it, of making Harry fall to pieces with want. He'd be on his knees, but Harry would be at his mercy – _harder, suck harder, please_. Harry hears his own voice and he can see the look on Draco's face when he makes Harry beg, and his cock throbs and he comes into his fist, into Draco's mouth, harder than he has in ages.

"Shit," he mutters, rolling onto his stomach and flattening his face into his pillow. He hardly has time to catch his breath when an owl taps at the window.

It's an MLE Department owl. Not generally a good sign at this time of the morning. He slips it from the owl's leg and sees his assistant's impeccably neat writing.

_Mr Potter,_

_There has been another letter of the same general type, with the exact same green ink. It was sent in by someone who says she knows you and will speak only to you. I am sorry, sir, I know this happens all the time and I would not usually go along with it, but she was very insistent. Her name is Arabella Figg._

_I am sorry if I was wrong to contact you,_

_Miranda_

He grabs a quill and bit of parchment and writes a quick note to Malfoy, with the name and address much too close to the place that was never really home. Then he sends a note by return owl, assuring Miranda that she was absolutely right to contact him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mrs Figg's house smells exactly the same as it did twenty-five years ago. She is wearing the same housecoat. Harry has to keep shaking himself to remind himself of what year it is. Of course, all he has to do is cast a glance at Draco, sitting on the settee with his hands on his knees, looking afraid to touch anything, to know how very long ago he was last sent here by the Dursleys. Harry has to focus his mind away from images of Draco on his knees, or words abandon him whenever he catches Draco's eye to speak.

"Where did you put the letter?" Mrs Figg asks, shuffling back into the room.

"I—" Draco begins, but he stops when a huge, grey cat trots up to her with a letter in its mouth. "She was talking to the cat," Draco mouths. He raises his eyebrows in Harry's direction.

"May we see it, Mrs Figg?" Harry asks gently.

"That's why you're here, I should think," she says, handing the letter to Harry. "I'll make tea."

"Bring it here, Potter," Draco says and Harry takes a deep breath. Sitting next to him on the sofa, with the memory of this morning so fresh, is both exactly where he wants to be and the last place he wants to be.

"You come here," Harry says. He's standing next to a long table, and he spreads the letter out. "We can both see it this way."

"All right," Draco says, drawing out the words and arching one eyebrow. He stands, carefully touching nothing with his bare hands.

It is the same green. Miranda was right about that. There is also the same flourish on the tail of each "y" – a detail Harry hasn't yet shared with Draco.

This – standing – is worse, Harry realises as Draco comes to stand behind him, leaning to see the letter. His hip presses against Harry's. He can throw off an Imperious curse. He can certainly read a letter while Draco Malfoy's breath brushes across his ear. At least that's what he tells himself.

_Dear Madam,_

_My name is Mr Clinton Clander, the Administrative Manager of POPPER POTIONS Inc, based in London, England, United Kingdom. I got your contact from the Potioneers Gazette magazine. I have a business proposal for you._

_There is a product my company needs from Egypt but we are having difficulties procuring it. Our company creates fine potions for love, health, and productivity. We have been purchasing our ingredients with no problem until recently and we now have information that somebody has THE PRODUCT IN STOCK in Egypt. This is why we need a reliable company/individual that will help us link with the man. His name is Mr Mark Flippent. Please if this proposal interests you, do respond so that we may finalise the arrangements._

_Madam, we are in dire need of these ingredients and you are our only hope. Once you confirm, we will be coming twice in a month and importing as many as thirty vials a trip. We will be happily able to pay you during each trip._

_I hope this is the beginning of a long and fruitful association._

_Most sincerely,_

_Mr Clinton Clander, London, England, United Kingdom_

"I'll be out in a tick," Mrs Figg calls from the kitchen. "I'm just cutting the cake now."

"Here's hope that she's got some new cake since I was a kid," Harry mutters.

"Since you were a kid?" Draco turns and his closeness makes Harry feel like prey. "You know the old bat?"

"I used to come here sometimes, yes," Harry says in a tone he hopes broaches no further discussion.

"So, is she as loopy as she seems?"

"She was in the Order of the Phoenix," Harry says, realising immediately that Draco might not see this as the recommendation it is. Mundungus Fletcher was in the Order of the Phoenix, after all.

"I've a thought," Draco says. He tilts his head and nods, and then goes back to staring at the letter.

"Are you going to share this momentous thought, or did you just want me to know you had it?" Harry asks after a moment.

"She's trustworthy, this woman?"

"What's your thought?" Harry insists. He'd rather not answer the question of Mrs Figg's current trustworthiness until he's spent a little more time with her.

"Think she'd be game to scam the scammer?"

"You want to trap him?" Harry asks.

"Very good, Potter," Draco says. He holds his wand the same way he holds a cigarette.

"I've a feeling entrapment's against regulations." Harry picks the parchment back up. "Would you just look at the handwriting? That's what Kingsley's paying you for. There's something similar about each of them. Look at the y's. I wonder if we're not dealing with one crook."

"What sort of an idiot writes a regulation preventing Aurors from using the most effective way to catch a thief?" Draco crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Harry, clearly incredulous.

"I wrote it the year I became head of the Auror Office and it was adopted the following year." Harry tries to keep an indignant tone from his voice.

"Of course you did," says Draco.

"Look here, though," Harry says. He runs a finger over the sharp, slanting script. "If she goes along, maybe with some advice from you, and I just monitor it, when our con artist goes in for the kill, so to speak, I catch him. He's done it anyway. I haven't done anything. Letting him commit his crime and inducing him to commit a crime are not the same."

"Potter, I'm surprised at you." A slow smile spreads on Draco's face and, for a moment, Harry loses track of what he'd said.

"Here we are," Mrs Figg announces, coming in the room with a tray laden with cakes and scones and biscuits. "I'm afraid this is all I had about, not expecting you and all. Come on, tuck in."

"Mrs Figg," Harry says. The bounty of baked goods is a far cry from the ancient cake of his childhood. It crosses his mind that she may have been taking that making him miserable bit a touch too far. "What would you think of answering this letter, of seeing if we can pull in whoever this is. We've no leads and several people have lost large amounts of gold."

"I was wondering when you were going to do something about these scams, boy."

"Yes," says Draco. He seems to revise his opinion of Mrs Figg, and he takes her up on the offer of a chocolate biscuit. "High time you did something, Auror Potter."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Dear Mr Clander,_

_Thank you for your second letter and your concern about my health. I still would like to help you, but I need some more information. My son tells me that I have to be careful these days. How would I contact this Mr Flippent? How much would you pay me for arranging to buy your potions ingredients?_

_Thank you,_

_Mrs Figg_

Harry sets the letter down on top of the monthly report he was writing before Draco barged into his office two minutes earlier.

"I don't actually want to see these as it's going along," he says. "I don't want to know anymore than I need to."

"It's brilliant," Draco says. "We gave just enough to string him along, not enough to make it seem like we're pushing."

"Did you not hear what I said? I don't want to – wait, we?" Harry asks. "I thought you were writing them for her."

"We're doing them together. Arabella did most of this one. She's a natural. It's a bit frightening, really, how quickly she took to it."

"Arabella?"

"Oh, shut up,” says Draco. “We're close to reeling him in. A few more, and I think he'll ask to meet." 

Harry can't stop staring at the light pink that flushes Draco's cheeks.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The kitchen table looks as if a breakfast-shaped bomb has gone off. Scraps of toast, eggy plates, an empty pot of jam on its side, and more plates, bowls, forks, and spoons than Harry thought he had in his cupboards, litter the table.

"I need another spoon," Lily says, looking critically at the three she has already deemed not fit for her porridge.

"You have three," Harry says. He pours James another goblet of pumpkin juice and looks regretfully at his own, now cold, uneaten breakfast. A year ago, he would never have tried to sit down to eat without extra spoons and a full pitcher of pumpkin juice.

"That one has jam on it. That one touched my egg, and that one is far too pointy at the end," huffs Lily, crossing her arms.

The evidence that he is this out of practice in the daily routine staring him in the face, is a bitter potion.

"Al, what's the matter? You've hardly touched yours," Harry says. He taps the pointy-ended spoon with his wand and hands the now-curved-ended spoon to Lily.

Looking at their young faces in this strange place, he can see the flat through their eyes – boring and impersonal, a temporary stopping place – and he realises that he'd somehow been trying not to make this into their other home, as if that would makes the divorce real to them, as if it weren't already.

"M'not hungry, Dad." Albus shrugs and pushes his plate another inch away from himself.

"He doesn't like bacon. He fancies himself a vegetarian now and you forgot and he's too much of a baby to say anything," James says.

Harry's heart sinks into his stomach. Albus, his sweet-natured boy, would keep quiet and stay hungry so as not to hurt Harry's feelings.

"Al, I'm—"

The Floo roars with a green flame and, "Potter," is barked through the flat. Draco's voice sounds so odd here in the room with his children's breakfast all over the table. "Potter, I have news."

"It's Sunday morning," Harry says. The last person he wants to witness his failure as a parent is the perfectly-composed single father of the year. "Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow. I'm not sitting about waiting for you to call."

"Funny," Draco says. "I had the impression you were."

"Malfoy, f—"

"Children," Draco scolds, a small smile on his lips.

Harry is about to tell him to come through. The kids seem to have settled in for a moment. But a loud, clear voice calls, "Papa, you said you'd help me with my chess and you said no working today."

Harry nearly chokes at the contrite look on Draco's face.

"Here, Potter. Just look at this later and meet me at Arabella's at nine sharp tomorrow."

Harry takes the roll of parchment that is tossed through the Floo. He wants to read it, but it's Sunday morning and the kids are here.

"What is it?" Harry asks. Albus is staring at him, watching him in his indecision.

"You're always trying so hard to make everything right now, and it just makes it odd."

Harry’s heart clenches. "You're right. I think I need your help. We'll work together, eh? We'll make it better."

Harry tucks the letter into his pocket. He won't look at it until after Molly picks the kids up after tea.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco looks unaccountably comfortable in Mrs Figg's armchair by the fire. Harry is stunned until he moves closer and sees that he has clearly cleaned it and removed all traces of cat hair that might sully his fine robes.

"You should leave, Potter," Draco says. Draco is sitting, but Harry still feels as if he's looking down his nose at him. "It's about this time he usually sends a letter and I wouldn't want your virtue to be compromised."

"And when did you become concerned for my virtue?" Harry clears his throat when his voice comes out a bit rough.

"Since your ludicrous regulation against so-called entrapment could taint my case." Draco's eyes are trained on the window that looks onto the front path. "I never knew that owls went to Squibs’ houses."

"How the devil would we get the Daily Prophet then?" Mrs Figg asks, shaking her head. She's peeling an apple and her paring knife slices the skin in one, long, curling, green strip. "Purebloods."

Harry takes a moment to enjoy Draco struck speechless and an owl alights on the windowsill. It's a large barn owl that Harry has never seen. Mrs Figg takes the letter, gives the owl a bit of the apple, and hands it directly to Draco without so much as a look.

He unrolls it on the table and touches his wand to the ink. "It's fresh," he says, with obvious excitement. Draco pulls parchment, quill, and three phials from his robes and goes to work analysing the ink, the handwriting, looking for any traces of magic. He pulls flecks of the ink from the paper on the tip of his wand and delicately drops them into one phial. A scraping of the parchment goes into the other, and a magically enhanced fingerprint goes into a third.

Harry watches in admiration the speed with which Draco moves. Minutes, it seems, after he's started, he pockets the notes he's made as well as the phials, pushes aside the newest letter, and says, "That's all I'll get from that."

"Aren't you going to read the bloody thing?" The words burst from Harry, seemingly of their own volition.

"Oh, you're finally going to let me compromise your virtue, are you?" Draco asks, through a self-satisfied half smile.

"Just read the letter," Harry says, squelching a train of thought he'd rather not have in front of Mrs Figg.

"I'll read it," Mrs Figg says, snatching it from the table. "It says, _Dear Mrs Figg, Please contact Mr Flippent and ask if he has the needed items and is willing to accept four Galleons per vial. On each vial that we buy, we are ready to refund your four Galleons and pay you one additional galleon for your kind assistance._ One Galleon? I thought it'd be more than that. This is worth more than that."

"It's not actually real, Mrs Figg," Harry says gently.

"Do I look like I was born yesterday?" she snaps and rolls her eyes at Draco. " _Please confirm by Monday, by return owl, so as to enable us arrange for our representative who will travel to Egypt for the purchase of the material. We are awaiting your owl so that we may arrange for you to travel to meet with us in Egypt. Yours,_ blah, blah, blah."

"Nearly there," Draco says. There's a note of triumph in his voice. "We've nearly got him. He wants you to come to Egypt."

"Tell him I want to meet him here first," Mrs Figg insists. "I'm not going all the way to Egypt before meeting him. What do I want to do that for?"

"You're not going to actually go to Egypt," Harry cautions. He's beginning to worry that Mrs Figg is losing her faculties.

Both Draco and Mrs Figg give him withering looks and set to work on a new letter. It's still unnerving to see them working together likes this. They send the letter back with the large owl – which had been busy slowly eating the long strand of apple skin – asking this Clander to meet Mrs Figg near Gringotts in two days to discuss the arrangements.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The moment that they step out of Mrs Figg’s house, Draco pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and takes one out. It lights as it touches his lips. He holds the packet out to Harry and Harry is almost tempted to take one just so he can lean in and light it on the glowing ember of Draco's.

"You and Mrs Figg seem to bring out the best in each other," Harry says. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

"What are you on about?" Draco lifts the cigarette to his lips, two fingers holding it to his mouth while the others curl around his jaw.

"Well, you seemed terribly cosy in there," says Harry.

"Well, she's got her share of pluck and is doing a fair bit of the work," Draco says. He exhales and the smoke mixes with the vapour from his breath in the chilly air. "Am I not spending enough time with you, hmm?"

"Depends what you mean by enough," Harry says. He looks Draco up and down and he knows Draco will see it, but he can't help himself.

"Surely that word doesn't tax even your vocabulary," Draco says and he turns to step to the side of the house where they can Apparate unseen.

Harry follows. In the gap between the houses, the temperature plummets as they move out of the failing light.

"Maybe I can put it another way," Harry says. He's no good at this. Since he's been on his own again, he hasn't really had to make an effort to pull, and he's realising that perhaps that's fortunate.

Draco faces him and leans back against the brick wall of Mrs Figg's little house. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Potter, are you attempting to flirt with me?"

"I don't know," Harry asks. He steps closer and his body floods with heat despite the chill. "Is it working?"

"Why, is there a wall you'd like to shove me against?" Draco's eyes burn into him and Harry hears the sizzle as he drops his cigarette into the snow.

"There's one behind you," Harry says quietly. "But it's a little public."

"Scorpius is at my mum's for the night," Draco says. "Come for a drink." He grabs Harry's wrist and when Harry nods, he feels the nauseating pull behind his navel.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco's flat is bright and alive. It's scrupulously clean, but Scorpius is evident everywhere – a child's broomstick propped in the foyer, books stacked next to the sofa, and a quill, ink pot, and parchment covered in drawings of dragons on a small desk. The dark green sofa is elegant, but looks soft and inviting, and there are photographs and paintings on the wall. By comparison, his own flat looks soulless.

The mantelpiece is covered with photographs and Harry is drawn to it, a living collage of Draco's life. Narcissa and Lucius sit, looking out imperiously from one frame. Most of the other photos show Scorpius, beaming, grinning, laughing, at various ages, doing various things that are impressive only to a parent. In the centre, in the place of honour, is a photo of a pretty young woman with pale hair. She's holding a baby, Scorpius at about one, and smiling at him as if he lights the world. Harry reaches out to touch the silver frame.

"She was a wonderful mother," Draco says, suddenly behind Harry. He's returned with the drinks – one of them is a tumbler of whisky, Harry's relieved to see. "But I told you that." He looks at the smiling woman, and it's easy to see that he loved her. "There now, I've bared my soul. Your turn. Tell me what happened with you and that fit young man you were seen about with after you left Weasley."

"He wasn't my type," Harry says. He looks over his shoulder and Draco is so very close.

"Oh?" Draco leans forward and Harry can see the slick sheen of the whisky on his lip. "What is your type?"

Harry turns, facing Draco and the air between them seems to quiver. "I would have thought you'd seen those photos as well."

"It is ill-advised to believe everything one sees in the Prophet, clearly. More to the point, you were attached to Weasley from age 16. I wouldn't have thought you'd had time to develop a different type."

"When I was 16, I was obsessed with you," Harry says. His breath catches when Draco tilts his head inquisitively, the perfect angle for a kiss. "I was twenty-two and married before I realised there was more to it than a vanishing cabinet."

"The literal closet," says Draco. The corner of his mouth curves in a small smile. "Six years? That's a bit pathetic, even for you."

"You want to know what's even more pathetic?" Harry pushes on. He's come this far, he thinks, and turning back has never been his strong suit.

"What could be?"

"Since Ginny and I split, and the Prophet had the courtesy to out me so spectacularly, I've had more than my share of offers. Every time I leave the house, men proposition me," Harry says. He doesn't know when he did it, but Draco has moved closer. "Sometimes I accept, but looking back, only the blonds."

Draco's hand lights on Harry's hip, so softly it could be taken for an accident. "Cheap imitations," he whispers, his breath warm over Harry's cheek.

"So show me the real thing," Harry says, sliding his hand around Draco's waist to the small of his back.

Harry catches a glimpse of Draco's crooked half smile spreading across his mouth before he leans in and presses his lips to Harry's.

A kiss is not what he expected. Draco on his knees, on his back, Draco pushing him against the wall – not soft lips moving over his mouth and a clever, liquorice flavoured tongue sliding past his teeth and curling around his. A kiss is not what he ever fantasised about, but it is so much better.

"Mm," Harry moans as Draco curves his hand around Harry's neck, pulling him in and deepening the kiss.

Draco backs him up slowly, kissing with the same fierce concentration Harry has seen at crime scenes, and it is dizzying to be the focus of that intensity. Harry stops when his back connects with the wall, but Draco doesn't and his long body presses against Harry’s. Draco is just enough taller that Harry has to tilt his head to keep their lips moving on each other, their tongues slipping together.

He wants Draco more than he has wanted anyone for years. He's hard and aching and Draco rolls his hips, sliding their cocks together through their robes. He could so easily press back, grab Draco, and rut against him until they both come.

"Walls are good for some things." Harry runs his hands over Draco's arse. He wants to touch Draco's skin, for there to be nothing between his fingers and the soft curves of Draco's arse. He wants to taste him. "But I want you on a bed."

"Don't underestimate walls," Draco says. He pushes against Harry, a pressure Harry can feel in his lungs.

"Don't underestimate me," Harry murmurs. He grazes Draco's neck with his teeth.

"Such confidence," mutters Draco as he tilts his head, baring his throat, and leans into the rough kiss.

Draco's fingers circle Harry's wrist and he leads him along the hallway, pushing open the door at the end. Draco's bedroom is all shades of greys and greens, a large bed with a thick duvet dominating the space. The only decorations on the walls are a child's drawings. Draco flicks his wand and a lamp on each bedside table floods the room with a soft glow.

They come together again in the middle of the room and Harry's fingers fumble with Draco's clothes as they kiss. Robes slither off his shoulders. Harry opens the buttons of a crisp white shirt, revealing a smooth, firm chest and belly to explore. He brushes his hand over Draco's nipple, and Draco shudders. Harry wants to see him shudder again.

Draco touches Harry with his wand and Harry shivers with the sudden cool air and anticipation as he stands stark naked in Draco's arms. Draco steps back and runs his hands over Harry's shoulders and arms, down across his waist and hips, eyes lidded with desire.

"Not underestimating," he says, wrapping his hand loosely around Harry's cock.

"God," Harry gasps. "And you're not wasting any time."

"I think we've wasted enough."

And Draco is kissing him again, pulling his bottom lip between his lips and stroking his cock, maddeningly loose and light.

"Please. Off," Harry moans, tugging at Draco's trousers.

Draco smiles against his mouth and reaches to undo his own belt. Harry whimpers at the loss of Draco's hand on his cock and Draco's smile shifts to a soft laugh.

Draco's trousers fall to the floor and Harry falls to his knees. He covers Draco's cotton-clad cock with his mouth. He wants to devour him bit by bit. He opens his mouth and puffs hot breath, making Draco moan. Draco moves backward, and he tries to be slow and elegant, but Harry can see that his knees are about to buckle.

"Lie back," Harry says. He stands over the bed and looks. Smooth skin, lightly muscled chest and stomach, and a fan of pale hair, are spread out for him on the dark green duvet. "Christ."

Harry leans over him. He doesn't know where he should touch, where he should taste first. Harry kisses the inside of Draco's knee and crawls onto the bed. The skin is soft and warm under his lips. His cock aches and he rolls his hips, pressing it into the bed.

He licks a stripe from Draco's knee to his thigh and Draco makes a soft growling sound, arching into the bed. Harry moves up, hands on Draco's knees, on his inner thighs, pressing open-mouthed kisses as he goes. He mouths along the waistband of Draco's pants and hooks his thumb around the elastic, pulling them down his hips. Draco's cock stands straight up, thick and full, and Harry licks from the base to the tip. He sucks the head into his mouth and Draco's hands clench in Harry's hair.

"Harry," Draco says softly.

"Mm," Harry hums against Draco's skin. He bites lightly just below where Draco's thigh joins his hip and traces the crease there with the tip of his tongue, closing his eyes at the surge of anticipation from the way Draco trembles. "I want—"

"Yes," Draco gasps, bending his knees as Harry hooks his arms around Draco's thighs.

Harry kisses the gentle swell of Draco's arse, and one of Draco's heels lands solidly on his shoulder blade. He traces Draco's curves with the tip of his tongue. The texture and taste is intoxicating, and the way Draco's breath hitches is driving him mad.

"I want to do this," Harry mouths against Draco's skin. He licks along the cleft of Draco's arse, barely touching, barely dipping inside.

Draco's other foot falls onto Harry's back, and he uses them as leverage, pushing up and opening himself to Harry.

"So, do it," Draco whispers. His voice rumbles and for the first time, Harry can hear a hint of the cigarettes in his husky voice.

Harry curls his tongue around Draco's balls, first one and then the other. His pulse pounds in his ears and he both wants to make this last forever and to stop and fuck Draco senseless. He breathes in and out deeply, blowing a huff of breath on Draco's skin. Draco arches, tensing every muscle in his body. Harry closes his eyes and imagines how he looks – head thrown back and legs over Harry's shoulders. Harry presses his tongue against Draco's entrance.

"Ah," Draco moans and his fist closes tightly in Harry's hair.

Harry licks the length of Draco's cleft and laps at Draco's entrance, shivering at the deeper, longer moan he elicits. He circles his tongue around the rim and pushes just the tip inside. Draco grips Harry's hair, almost too tightly, and Harry pulls back until he relaxes his grip.

"Slow down," Harry whispers, not sure if that is for Draco or himself. He blows gently onto Draco's wet skin, feeling him flinch. Draco digs his heels into Harry's back, and Harry laves his tongue over Draco's hole.

"Potter," Draco growls. "For God's—"

He breaks off as Harry points his tongue and presses inside. Draco is so tight around him, so hot and slick, and he nearly comes at the thought of how this will feel around his cock. Harry pulls out and presses in. Draco rocks his hips against Harry's face until Harry can't take it another moment and Draco is pulling on his hair, pulling Harry up his body to suck his tongue into his mouth, legs wrapped around Harry's waist.

"Where's the—"

"Accio lube," Draco says, and he hands Harry the tube that flies into his hand.

Harry leans back onto his knees and slicks his fingers. Draco is already relaxed and wet from Harry's tongue, and his finger slides easily into his warm body.

"More," Draco demands, digging his heels into Harry's arse. Harry slips two fingers in and fucks Draco with them, slow and as deep as he can.

"I'm going to fuck you now," Harry says, looking down into Draco's blazing eyes. "Please, fuck, please," Harry pleads, gripping his cock and pressing the head against Draco's entrance.

Draco tightens his legs around Harry's waist, pulling him in. "Fuck me," he says, and Harry pushes until he feels Draco stretch around the head of his cock.

Harry bites his lips to slow himself down, but he can't tear his eyes from the sight of Draco beneath him. He slides his cock all the way in, until his hips are flush against Draco's body. Draco tilts his hips, taking Harry deeper.

"Don't be so damn careful," Draco huffs and rolls his hips so Harry slides out and back in again.

"Oh my God," Harry groans. He grabs Draco's hips and holds him while he pulls nearly all the way out. He pauses, waits until Draco moans and arches back, pressing his head and shoulders into the bed, before thrusting back in. He fucks Draco in hard, fast strokes, watching his muscles clench.

Harry sits back on his heels and pulls Draco with him, so he can fuck him harder, deeper, spread his knees and push Draco's legs further apart. Draco slams his hands into the bed and uses the leverage to move and Harry feels as if he's going to disappear inside Draco.

"Ahh," Draco cries out. "Like that, just like that." Harry moves with him, keeping that angle and hitting his prostate on every thrust.

A pink flush creeps up Draco's chest and he is so gorgeous that Harry can't breathe. He doesn't even try. He holds his breath and every sensation narrows to his cock sliding in and out of Draco. He comes, deep inside, his hips stuttering against Draco's tall, strong body.

"Don't stop, don't you dare stop."

Harry hears Draco's voice, insistent through the haze of his orgasm. He manages to come back to himself enough to keep moving, to wrap his fingers around Draco's cock and stroke, hard and fast in time with his fucking.

Draco tips his head back, mouth open in a long, slow moan as he comes over Harry's hand. Harry gasps as Draco's arse clenches around his softening, oversensitive cock.

"Draco," Harry says. He collapses onto Draco, their heaving chests pressed together. He never wants to move and he doesn't for several, long minutes.

Draco nudges Harry with a heel, still resting against Harry's arse. "You're heavy," he says.

Harry rolls off Draco and flops onto the luxurious bed, bereft at the loss of Draco's warmth. He casts Draco a sideways glance, hoping to see confirmation that this was real, that it wasn't a mistake. Draco has a cigarette in his hand. Harry didn't hear him summon it or see him reach for it. Draco puts it to his kiss swollen lips and inhales.

"I must admit, I find your combination of Gryffindor bravado and begging incredibly hot." He looks Harry over, as if assessing him.

"I find you incredibly hot, full stop," Harry says. "But I think I made that clear."

"This, Potter," Draco says, "was not the worse night of my life." He pulls smoke into his mouth again and exhales it in a sigh.

"Nor mine, but then we've both had some fairly shitty nights," Harry says. He's grinning like a daft idiot, but he can't help it. He leans close and Draco kisses him. Harry opens to a brush of Draco's tongue, and Harry is nearly breathless at the tenderness of it.

"I should go," Harry says regretfully, extricating himself from the bed, after several more long kisses. "Get some sleep." He summons his clothes and pulls them on.

"Tomorrow, we have a thief to catch," Draco says.

Draco's satisfied yawn is the last thing Harry hears as steps into the Floo.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry leans casually against the brick wall in the alley off Gringotts. He can hardly see Draco, who blends in with the red of the bricks and grey of the cement perfectly due to an expertly cast Disillusionment Charm. If he wasn't acutely aware of Draco's presence, he wouldn't know he was there, and he cast the charm.

Mrs Figg totters into the shadowy alley and Harry is struck by how small she looks. He bites his lips to stop himself from crying out that they should stop.

"We're right here," Draco whispers, and Harry is stunned by the kindness in his voice – until he says, "You're the one fretting and she's the old woman."

Harry is about to answer when someone, a man, steps out of the shadows.

"Mr Clander?" Mrs Figg asks cautiously.

The man is short and sloppily dressed. His ensemble looks as if it was hastily thrown together – pinched, more like – from a second hand shop ten minutes before he showed up. Harry can't see his face, but there's something familiar about him.

"Right," the man says, approaching Mrs Figg. "You have the gold so's we can buy the stuff? You'll have your money, don't you worry 'bout that."

"Bloody hell," Harry mutters, and he can suddenly place the voice and the hangdog expression.

Mrs Figg takes a step and a swing, and Mundungus Fletcher is knocked on his arse by the impact of her string bag.

"Christ," he yelps, covering his head with his hands. "What's wrong with you?" He peers from between his arms. "Ger’off me, ouch, I can, ow, explain," he shouts as her bag comes down upon his head again.

"You filthy, cheating scoundrel," she says, punctuating each word with a bash about the head. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Should we step in?" Harry asks. He leans a bit to his left and his arm feels warm where it presses against Draco’s, even through the cloak.

"Give her a moment," Draco says. His mischievous smile tingles through to Harry’s toes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mundungus cowers in the seat, under the bright light in the Ministry interview room. He keeps insisting that this was the first time he'd tried this, after seeing "letters like that about."

"Maybe he fell for one himself," Draco suggests. "And that gave him the idea."

"No, he doesn't have anything to steal, or anything that's not already been stolen once." Harry paces in front of Mundungus, whose watery eyes dart back and forth between him and Draco, with the occasional nervous glance toward the hallway where Mrs Figg sits waiting.

"He doesn't look clever enough to have come up with this on his own," Draco says, with a sideways glance at Harry.

"Fair point," concedes Harry. Draco plays his role with calm elegance, and Harry has no clue how he is going to make it through this interview without touching him. "Fletcher, when are you going to stop making me arrest you?" Harry asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"So don't arrest me," Mundungus groans miserably.

"Just tell us what you've done and who helped you and I'll see if I can keep you out of Azkaban," Harry says.

Fletcher's eyes bulge at the mention of Azkaban. "Harry, you wouldn't let them—"

"My credit, and my good will, are running thin when it comes to you, being honest." Harry adopts a weary tone that is not altogether put on. It is so easy to remember wanting to strangle this man, and he would still be happy to throttle him more often than not.

"Let me talk to him alone," Draco says, twirling his wand in his fingers.

"'Ere, what's he doin' in 'ere?" Mundungus flinches as if he’s just noticed Draco.

"He's here because he's working with us on this case," Harry says firmly. "You know what, Malfoy? I think we're finished here. Would you ask Miranda to ready a cell and set up a hearing?"

"All right, all right," Mundungus says, his hands held up in surrender. "She's prob'ly worse than bloody Azkaban, but there's no drink in there. Bugger it all, Harry."

"Who’s worse than Azkaban, Mundungus?" Harry leans down to look into his droopy, bloodshot eyes.

"Rita Skeeter, that’s who," Mundungus says, covering his face with his hands as if he expects her to jump out from the corner of the room.

A wave of old anger washes through Harry’s chest. "Explain," he says through gritted teeth.

"She sold me a quill a while back, said I could use it to make some money, and once I did, I could pay 'er then," he mutters. "She put the letters already in it, addresses and such all ready to go. Seemed harmless enough. It was just supposed to be bits of gold 'ere and there. But then they keep writing back, asking questions, and I don't know what to say, see. So she said she'd help me get the money, help me write the answers, if I paid for each one, and then she'd take her full cut later."

"Arabella Figg doesn't have enough money to make that worth it," Draco says. "And speak up. Saying it quietly doesn’t make you any less guilty."

"Learned that from experience, Malfoy?" Mundungus barks, looking at Harry with conspiratorial triumph.

"I’m asking the questions," Harry says. He can feel Draco retreat, sitting in the corner of the room. "Arabella Figg alone doesn't have enough money to make this amount of work worth it. How many others?"

"I didn’t know it was Figgy. I swear I didn’t. Come on, Harry, you know me," Mundungus pleads.

"That is not your best line of defence." Harry shakes his head. "How many did you have going at once?"

"Four," Mundungus says. "Honestly. I did ‘em to four people. I still have the quills."

"And you paid Skeeter for each letter?"

"Just a bit. I don’t have much to pay her until the pigeo—the pay-off." Mundungus sinks lower in his seat with each confession.

"Hang on," Harry says. "Until the pay off? You never saw any money?"

"No," Mundungus wails. Harry thinks Mundungus might cry. "They all just kept asking more questions and I’d pay Skeeter a little more and she’d charm another quill and tell me the next one would bring it in. I was almost there with two of ‘em before you went and set Figgy on me."

Draco laughs. "You never made any gold?"

"You’re lying," Harry says. He places both hands on the table in front of him. "We have complaints from half a dozen people who had their vaults emptied."

"He’s pathetic," Draco says. "Send him to Azkaban and question Skeeter." Draco stands and takes a step toward the door.

"Harry!" Mundungus cries. "Harry, no. It wasn’t just me. She had other people working for her."

"Other much more successful people, apparently," Draco says, contempt and boredom rolling off him. "Aren’t we finished with this idiot?"

"Not quite," Harry says. He paces again and Mundungus’ gaze follows him apprehensively. "Dung, I can’t promise this will keep you out of Azkaban, but it will get you started on your service to the community. You are going to help us catch a bug."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I had no idea she’d be able to fly so fast," Draco says. His back is to Harry as he stands at the long sideboard. He pours green liquid from a crystal decanter into a tall crystal goblet.

"Not fast enough," Harry says. He stands on the other side of the room, awkward suddenly, in Draco’s home with his son asleep in the next room. In one night, the case is settled except for the trial – Mundungus having gone to Rita Skeeter saying he was full of doubts, threatening to back out, and coaxing her with a carefully scripted speech into giving enough incriminating details to prove everything and go after her more successful conspirators.

There is no reason for him to be here with Draco, except that he wants to be.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Draco turns and holds up the intricately cut decanter.

"I’d prefer whisky, actually," Harry says, but he can remember the taste of anise on Draco’s tongue.

"Mm," hums Draco. He places a sugar cube on a silver spoon and drips some of the absinthe onto it. "La fée verte. You have no idea what you're missing," he says, as he tips the alcohol-soaked cube onto his tongue.

Harry moves closer. Draco's mouth closes around the sugar. "I think I do, actually," Harry says. He closes the gap between them, stealing the traces of sweetness from Draco's lips.

Draco wraps his arms around Harry's waist, pulling him against his body, and Harry teases open Draco's lips until he can taste the sweetened absinthe on his tongue. He moans at the feel of the granules of sugar against the slick, velvet softness of Draco's mouth.

Harry threads his fingers through Draco's soft hair, cupping his head and pulling him closer. He wants to crawl inside him, to taste every inch of him. He starts to pull back to tell Draco just that, and Draco chases him, answering with a soft sound when Harry sucks Draco's tongue into his mouth.

"I suppose you're waiting for me to ask you to stay," Draco says, when he finally breaks the kiss. He presses his forehead against Harry's.

Harry gathers Draco's hair into his hand, holding it in a bunch at the base of his skull. "I wasn't waiting, but I will beg if you'd like."

In answer, Draco smiles and reaches behind him to lift the crystal goblet of absinthe. He takes a sip and Harry breathes in the bittersweet scent. Different, for sure, Harry thinks, but it's a flavour he can see learning to love.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted at HD Holidays in 2010. Thanks to Eliza and Lisa for the beta help and themostepotente for the wonderful request, and to the mods!


End file.
